


The Werewolves of the Baskervilles

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson (TV Russia), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Book: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 16:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: The Baskerville line is faced with a different family curse this time around...(A remix of the Russian Holmes version of Hound.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sir Henry Baskerville/Dr Mortimer
Comments: 14
Kudos: 25
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019, More Holmes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luthienberen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/gifts).

“Well, Watson, what do you make of our visitor’s stick?”

Holmes sat with his back toward me, quietly eating his breakfast; I was certain he had not turned his head to observe my picking up the misplaced Penang lawyer and reading its inscription.

“Holmes, I do believe you have eyes at the back of your head!”

“Heat receptors at the tips of my ears, yes, eyes at the back of my head...no.” He had just finished the last of his cereal as Mrs Hudson, using her second sense that was just as baffling to me as Holmes’s ability to monitor my actions, arrived at precisely the right moment to remove the tray.

“Don’t be so alarmed, Dr Watson,” she said. “He’s only making good use of that well-polished coffeepot.”

I saw his grin within its reflection just before he burst out in a fit of laughter. “My dear Watson, I apologise. My spirit has been lifted at the prospect of our visitor, and I am a bit...pawky in my humour.”

“At my expense.”

“Again, apologies. Perhaps I can, in some small way, show my appreciation for your companionship?” He winked at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Holmes was an incorrigible flirt. But there was a visitor due to arrive at any moment. I continued to study the stick.

“To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,” I read. “1884.”

“And…?” He folded his hands in his lap and waited expectantly.

“I would say this is the walking stick of a country practitioner. The ferrule is well-worn from journeys upon rock-strewn lanes. James Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man. Well-esteemed, since those who know him have given him this mark of their appreciation.”

“Excellent!”

“And there is the engraving: ‘friends of the C.C.H.’ Something Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some assistance?”

“An admirable effort, Watson. You are progressing. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a great deal.”

I was proud of myself.

“I would suggest, however, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunting club, and that when the initials ‘C.C.’ are placed before ‘hospital’, the words ‘Charing Cross’ come to mind.”

“Ah! You may be right.”

“Let’s take it further, shall we? On what occasion would his friends gift him with such an item? So now old Dr. Mortimer transforms into a far younger man…perhaps about to establish his own practice? Perhaps the occasion which compelled him to finally strike out on his own was his marriage.”

“It seems likely,” I confessed.

“And we have a far richer picture…a young fellow, under thirty, amiable, unambitious—for he has left London—absent-minded—for he has also left us with his walking stick. He is also the possessor of a favourite dog, which—judging by the spacing of his teeth marks—I should describe roughly as being larger than a,” he examined the stick with his lens, “terrier...and smaller than a...mastiff.”

I laughed. “Well...that certainly narrows it down!”

The bell rang.

“And I daresay we shall receive our confirmation shortly.”

Mrs Hudson returned with a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. There was something in his bearing which might have reminded me of Holmes, were it not for the stranger’s somewhat slovenly manner as opposed to Holmes’s cat-like primness. That is to say when he wasn’t lounging around our rooms in his dressing gown reeking of the strongest tobacco. My Holmes has always presented a rather stark contrast between his private and public selves.

When Dr Mortimer caught sight of the walking stick, his face lit up with joy. “I am so very glad,” said he. “I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world.”

“A presentation, I see,” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir.”

“From Charing Cross Hospital?”

“From a few friends there.”

“To mark a special occasion—your marriage, perhaps?” Holmes smiled.

“Oh, heavens no!”

Holmes rapidly transformed to crestfallen. I tried my best not to look victorious. It was not that I had felt myself in the right, but during those early years of our relationship I often felt as if Holmes went quite far afield with his deductions. Perhaps to impress me. Few of them were indeed verifiable, though on the occasions that they were, he was absolutely correct. It took some time before he was confident enough in the notion of_ us _that there was no longer a need to perpetually win me over. And in this instance, though I knew in my heart that he had been correct about CCH and to this very day I do not know what possessed me to think it a token from a hunting club rather than a hospital, I had thought determining the circumstances under which he had left London for the countryside was a stretch. Especially for one who claimed to abhor guesswork.

“Forgive me for my outburst. I am indeed a…confirmed bachelor. I was compelled to leave Charing Cross and put down roots in Devonshire to care for my elderly father. He is now deceased.”

“My condolences,” said I.

“Well, Watson, we were right in the general sense, though we appear to have missed the finer details.”

“Ah, so then _you_ are the famous author, Dr John Watson—oh yes, we know you well in the wilds of the moor—and,” he turned to Holmes and smiled, “that makes _you_ Sherlock Holmes! The second highest expert in Europe!”

“And who might be said to be the first?” asked Holmes with some asperity.

“To the man of precisely scientific mind, the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly.”

“Then had you not better consult him?” Holmes had made a confirmed incorrect deduction, and I knew him to be at his most fragile state in such rare instances. Though I do not think he would take such a statement well even under the best of circumstances.

“Well, sir, to the precisely scientific mind.” Mortimer looked gravely concerned. “But...as a practical man of affairs, it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust that I have not inadvertently—”

“Just a little,” I interjected, but I do not believe he heard me, for Dr Mortimer was now staring intently at a spot just above Holmes’s brow.

“Mr Holmes,” he said, his voice approaching reverent, “I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a structure, nor such well-marked supra-orbital development! Your skull would grace any museum!”

I could tell Holmes had been deciding if this rather ridiculous man was worth the effort, as he took only the cases which interested him (his financial stability having increased with his reputation), but at the comment his mood shifted. He must have seen something of interest, for he smiled and said, “You are as much an enthusiast in your line of thought, sir, as I am in mine.”

I felt as if there was yet another commonality Holmes was alluding to. I examined Mortimer more closely. Nothing so obvious to me as the lay of his handkerchief or a green carnation in his lapel, but Holmes was always able to spot far less...intentional tells. And for that, I was deeply grateful.

“In any case, Dr Mortimer, I trust you came for a far more immediate purpose than to covet my skull once it is no longer in use. Read me your document.”

Dr Mortimer seemed a bit taken aback, but then realised it had been partially visible within his coat pocket. “It is an old manuscript,” he began.

“Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery. I put it at... 1730.”

“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew it forth. “This family paper belonged to the late Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. You should know he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end, as he believed it preordained. With your permission, I will read it to you.”

Holmes nodded curtly and leaned back in his chair, his finger-tips pressed together and his eyes closed, as Dr. Mortimer began:

—“Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes Sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed—”

The words of warning went on for some time, but at last the tale itself began...with a beast of a man...and went on to speak of how he had been smitten by a girl from the village, and he was of the sort who took what he wanted. I must admit the tale held little interest to me, and Holmes was certainly skimming the surface, seeking out whatever might prove relevant. To me, there was little to redeem the rambling account; I forced myself to give it my attention, so as to not insult our client.

“It was said within the village that the girl was indeed unlike any other, for she had spent her days and nights amongst the Spirits of the Moor, and had made a certain Peace with them. But Sir Hugo cared not for such tales and took her away from her herbs and her books and locked her within a chamber at the very top of his keep. Sir Hugo kept the company of like-minded men, and as the drunken revelry continued downstairs, the girl saw an opportunity to make her escape. She exited through the window and climbed down the ivy which grew thick upon the walls. Her journey across the moor was brief, however, for Sir Hugo had set his dogs against her. He charged in front and into the mist, as the rest of the grotesque hunting party trailed behind. Knowing she was done for, she was driven to the edge of a cliff, and had tried to bring forth a spell of protection, for runes and a few flowers were clutched within her hand, but it was too late. The pack was upon her, and Sir Hugo was close behind. He did not call his hounds off.”

Dr Mortimer paused here for dramatic effect, and, I believe, to ensure that Holmes, who had not moved a muscle during the recitation, had not fallen asleep. Holmes shifted in his chair for his benefit.

“And once the men had found the lifeless body of the maiden, they had found also Sir Hugo. Or what remained of him. The dogs had scattered, and would never be seen again, victims of the treacherous landscape. But over Sir Hugo stood a huge beast, freshly set loose from the chains of Hell itself. They made a hasty retreat as the creature tossed his body to the side as if it were mere rags.”

At last, Dr Mortimer had finished reading the account, and he pushed his spectacles up to look at Holmes, who seemed unimpressed.

“You do not find it interesting?”

“The monsters who most intrigue me are very much in the form of men.”

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it deeper within his pocket. “Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes. In connection to Sir Charles’s death.”

“All the public facts?”

“Yes.”

“Then, my good man, let us have the private ones.”

The doctor paused. “I did not share this with anyone at the time, Mr Holmes, but…the coroner’s report says his heart failed him. Natural causes. But I saw something else. Something a short distance from the body. Footprints.”

Holmes straightened to full attention. “A man’s? A woman’s?”

“Mr Holmes, they were the footprints…of a gigantic hound!”

“If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles’s death, as it falls within the realm of the supernatural, and that you wish for me to do it.”

“I did not say that I wished you to do it.”

Holmes stood up from his cushioned ottoman. “Then you have sought merely to amuse me with your collection of fairytales. Come, come Dr Mortimer, what is it that concerns you so?”

“I require advice as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station,” here Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch, “in exactly one hour and a quarter.”

“He being the heir?”

“Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which had reached us, he was an excellent fellow in every way, but I did visit with him to assure he was in fact the genuine heir before extending him an invitation to Baskerville Hall. As a trustee and the executor of Sir Charles’s will. There was no other claimant.”

“How, thorough of you.”

Mortimer coughed. “As I said, I am the executor. I have a duty to not provide false hope for the townspeople. Sir Charles’s estate means a great deal to the entire community. As he was childless, it was his openly-expressed desire that the whole country-side should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune. He had made generous donations to local charities, and many hope his heir will do the same. It would be a shame for the property to be abandoned or to fall into disrepair.”

“And of course you wish to be honest with your new occupant, but you still wish him to leave the Canadian wilderness and take his rightful place. Legend or no.”

“If it is safe to do so, yes.”

“Still, a man of science having room in his brain for this stuff of fantasy—”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Mr Holmes, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. And I rely on careful observation to make sense of my world. That was no normal-sized print. It would dwarf a Mastiff.” Mortimer ran his fingers through his hair, strands falling every which way. “I regret my not having made a plaster cast immediately!” He made a hasty attempt to tidy himself.

I wondered if Holmes had maintained room within his brain attic, as he called it, for Shakespeare. If he had not, he did not let on.

Holmes fixed him with a penetrating stare. “I am certain, if you wish for Sir Henry to remain safety in Canada, the estate would have enough financial stability, even without an heir onsite, to ensure its continued existence.”

“Possibly,” he replied.

“But you wish for Sir Henry to make this claim.”

“Again, only if it is safe to do so. It is his right, to benefit from it. But can such a force be defeated? His ancestor who set the story to print seems to think it possible.”

“That the curse has an expiration date?” Holmes smirked.

“Yes, Divine Providence would not forever punish the innocent.”

“Not beyond the third or fourth generation, at least,” said I. I had kept my family Bible and turned to it on occasion. Holmes, though well-versed in many texts of belief as marks the well-read man, preferred his Reade, I knew well. He smiled at me.

“A devil with merely local powers is inconceivable. If his family truly bears a curse, he will be as safe in Devonshire as he is in London.”

Mortimer looked as if about to protest, but then took a deep breath. “I can only hope my choice was the correct one. He comes in fifty minutes, by train.”

“Then I suggest the both of you secure lodgings in London and call upon me here at ten o’clock to-morrow.”

“I will do so, Mr. Holmes.”

“I would highly recommend the Northumberland Hotel,” Holmes called out, as Mortimer descended our stair.


	2. Chapter 2

Sir Henry Baskerville was nothing short of impressive. Initially, I thought him one of the largest men I had ever laid eyes upon, a rival to Mycroft Holmes, but I quickly discovered that was an illusion created by a simply massive coat. I hadn’t a clue as to the pelt it was derived from, but it spoke of Candian winters, and while practical in that frigid landscape, it was utterly ridiculous on the streets of London. That being said, Sir Henry’s personality seemed every bit as large as his coat. He greeted us with enthusiasm, spoke warmly of his short time in London, and was eager to see his late uncle’s estate. Holmes and I accepted Sir Henry’s immediate and earnest invitation to Baskerville Hall. 

It was a long voyage from London, during which Sir Henry spoke of his adventures. He was far from a simple farmer, and had had to clear his land, and fend off all manner of wild beasts. I learned the coat was bison, which he obtained from the Red River Métis in trade for a rather fine axe. And I learned a great deal about the art of making pemmican. He was surprised I was well-acquainted with the stuff, as it had wormed its way into military life. Our Boer troops are given an iron ration consisting of four ounces of pemmican and four ounces of chocolate and sugar. It was I who informed him that pemmican would keep in perfect condition for decades, and a man could march on this for 36 hours before he began to drop from hunger. Holmes had little to add on the subject, but I was glad for the continued easy conversation.

At last we arrived at Baskerville Hall. It was rather gloomy place, in my opinion. The desolation of the moor was not without romance, but there was no mistaking the fact that one wrong step and the bogs would end up claiming you forevermore. Sir Henry made much about the great improvement installing electric lights would provide to the grounds. I agreed it would likely seem a quite different place, given the benefit of lighting.

We passed the Yew Gate and Sir Henry coughed slightly. “That’s the place, isn’t it? Where my ancestor was found?”

‘Yes,” said Holmes, avoiding the details of the giant animal tracks with his reticence.

He craned his neck to keep looking at the gate as the carriage drove past.

Mortimer followed his gaze. “It would be wise, as a precautionary measure, to stay clear of the moors after dark.”

Sir Henry looked at him anxiously. “I thought there was no hard evidence. Just a bit of superstition.”

Mortimer gave him a crooked grin. “While it is true there is only the legend to warn against it, there was a very recent death. It seems wise to—“

“I will not have my actions dictated by some ridiculous ghost story!”

“All the same, don’t you think it wise, until the matter is thoroughly investigated, to—”

Sir Henry glanced up at Mortimer and then quickly turned back toward the window. “I suppose you are right. There is no harm in a bit of extra precaution.”

Mortimer turned to face the opposite window and the rest of the ride continued in silence as it stopped to return Mortimer to his home across a lonely stretch of moor to the north and then continued on to the stables at the far northern end of Baskerville Hall.

When we arrived at the Hall, we were provided with a serviceable dinner by Sir Charles’s trusted servant, Barrymore. His family had been in the employ of the Baskervilles for generations. His wife had prepared a surprisingly comfortable bed, the fire doing its cheerful best to brighten the room. Holmes and I always took separate rooms. A night apart was a small sacrifice, and only served to remind us how much we longed for the closeness of a shared bed. Holmes surprised me by mentioning at dinner he might join me in my bedchamber to discuss events relevant to the case as it progressed, since he often he found himself in need of the clarity a reiteration of the facts of the day brought. I was unsure if this was a falsehood, designed to protect us should he be found out of his chambers by Mrs Barrymore, or if it was, in fact, truth. I certainly would welcome him, but it was hardly an expectation on my part. As was our custom, he did not join me. It was just as well, for my shoulder ached and the journey had quite worn me out. 

The next morning I was feeling much better, as I ate a rather miserable looking serving of cereal beneath the portraits of generations of Baskervilles which hung in the dining area. A descendant of Barrymore was occasionally seen in the background. The likeness was certainly notable. 

“I believe I will go for a stroll,” said Sir Henry, “as it is daylight,” he added pointedly. He began walking toward the eastern end of the property, far from the Yew Gate. I set out to follow him while Holmes spoke to the staff.

Sir Henry had walked along the edges of a great bog, carefully poking the ground with a walking stick. We were both taken aback to see a lovely young woman walking amongst the reeds. I could hear her call out to him, “Sir Henry! A word please?”

I hid behind one of the ancient stone dwellings which dotted the moor.

Their conversation was brief, but I could see her lean in close and take his hand in earnest. Her troubled expression and pleading manner seemed to indicate she was warning him to leave Baskerville Hall. Eventually, she continued her journey west across the moor, and Sir Henry turned and stood in place.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson! Or is it afternoon by now?”

I sheepishly emerged from my hiding place. “Afternoon, but just barely.”

“Is it your intention to follow me whenever I set foot outside of my new home?”

“I have been asked to do so in your best interest.”

“By Doctor Mortimer?”

“By Mister Holmes.”

“Ah. I see. Then perhaps there is a legitimate reason for concern after all. Though I suppose I should warn you I rather dislike being watched from behind stone huts.”

“It was unfair of me to not disclose that you are, in a sense, my charge.”

“Well. No promises I shall behave myself.” He winked, then headed back to the manor. I decided to walk alongside him, rather than attempt a pointless secrecy.

“That was Miss Beryl Stapleton. She and her brother, Jack, are former schoolmasters who have moved out to Devon. Jack is a naturalist. Butterflies are his passion. And apparently they frequently stroll around these parts. A fine figure of a woman, don’t you think, Doctor?”

“She was some distance off, but I would not argue that fact.” I had seen little of her, and I believe anyone strolling along the moor would present a certain ethereal grace. 

“She also begged me to take care upon the moors at night, perhaps even to consider managing my inheritance from afar. The list of those concerned for my welfare grows. When I told her in no uncertain terms I intended to stay, she nodded and then invited me to dine with her and her brother to-morrow. I think it is likely I shall take her up on her gracious offer. Get to know her a bit better.” He added hastily, “And her brother, of course.”

“Of course,” said I.

“Has Mr Holmes been examining who is to profit from seeing the last heir taken out of the picture, so to speak?”

“Indeed he has. And a great many people serve to benefit from the estate”

“Should I be...removed.”

I nodded. Even Dr Mortimer served to gain property, should an heir not manage the lands. So many people served to benefit, in fact, that it rather diluted the odds of any one person being a prime suspect for taking such drastic measures. 

“I have the utmost confidence in Mr Holmes determining the source of the threat...if it indeed exists in reality. Even in Canada, we are well aware of his skill. I suppose you will say something such as, ‘I shall endeavor not to inform him of that’? It seems in keeping with your stories, eh?”

I laughed. “I am afraid he is already well aware of the extent of his fame. And not often pleased about it, given the tirades on how it interferes with the work.” I paused before disclosing, “Though, in confidence, I believe him to be very much pleased.” There was something in Sir Henry’s rough, yet affable manner which made this disclosure seem appropriate.

“What was it? ‘As sensitive to flattery as a schoolgirl?’ Something very much like that?”

“Close enough.” He was watching me keenly as I attempted to change the subject. “Do you intend to follow in the footsteps of Sir Charles, as far as being a shining light within the community, I mean?”

“Yes, I think so. I feel a surprisingly strong sense of connection to my ancestral land. I am glad for the responsibility.”

As we neared Baskerville Hall, we were both silent once more, contemplating the harsh beauty that surrounded us at every turn. 

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “That such beauty can exist alongside such peril. Perhaps that makes it all the more beautiful. Oh, there it is, upon the crest of the hill! We were closer than I had imagined. I will have Barrymore prepare lunch. Hopefully something more inspired than that horrid breakfast. I should like some meat this time!”

We crossed the last stretch of moor and were soon upon the graveled drive. 

I wondered what Holmes had determined during my absence.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes did not have much to say during dinner, or, in fact, afterward. I could tell the case wasn’t going as planned.

“Watson! I am afraid we must take drastic measures. It is a growing concern of mine that Sir Henry will no longer allow himself to be restricted within his home at night. I suspect he will take an evening excursion. And...I propose that we let him do so.”

“But Holmes! The moor at night! We cannot allow it.”

“My dear Watson, it is imperative we do so. We have far too many suspects in this matter and our best bet in solving this case is to catch our villain in the act. If we are monitoring Sir Henry’s journey across the moor, we can intercept whoever wishes to do him harm. I have asked friend Lestrade to join us in apprehending the criminal. He will arrive before nightfall to-morrow. We will be armed and at the ready, watching from a safe distance.”

I didn’t like his plan, but I could think of no other. And I agreed that Sir Henry would eventually refuse to be kept as a child with restrictions upon his movement. “Should we attempt to arrange this excursion?”

“He will do this of his own accord. Most likely to-morrow night. The moon will be full, which ensures the safest crossing. Even Sir Henry recognises the foolishness of traversing these lands in darkness. When it happens, watch him and report back to me. I shall be stationed within that primitive dwelling.” He gestured to a pile of stone which only resembled a structure in the loosest sense. “We shall inform him that I have returned to London on matters of the greatest importance when in fact I will be in hiding. I have arranged for a boy to send me food; I shall want for nothing, save your companionship, of course.”

“He will feel abandoned, Holmes!”

“Abandoned...and free. He will cross the moors, and his potential assailant will find a way to learn of this, as he knew of the movements of Sir Charles.”

I did not like this, and I said so. Holmes shook his head. “Nor do I. But we are fast running out of alternatives and our stay grows closer to an end with each passing day. We must tempt our culprit to take the bait.”

I cringed. Bait. This was a dangerous situation. 

“Watson… John… If you can think of another alternative, I promise to give it my full consideration.”

I sighed. “I know of none, save that which you have stated.” I tapped my coat pocket, glad of my revolver. “So, we wait.”

We returned to Baskerville Hall. Holmes casually mentioned his imminent return to London. He went on to explain that I would stay on for a day or two longer, then return as well. I would report to Holmes my detailed accounts of any new information via post.

“So, you no longer consider the matter dangerous?”

“It is not entirely free of peril. But I no longer consider you to be unable to handle any threat on your own.”

“I see.” Sir Henry stared at his plate and began to push his food around in small circles. “And when shall you be leaving?”

“I shall leave tonight. Watson in two day’s time. My presence, of course, is far more critical for this London affair.”

“I see,” he repeated.

Sir Henry did not speak another word until bidding us goodnight at the end of the meal. He got up, paced a bit, and then headed up to his room for the evening.

“I think he shall make his move to-morrow,” said Holmes. “He is quite agitated.”

I nodded. “I am...concerned,” I began, cautiously, “that he will be rash.”

“That is what we need. Rash, and perhaps a tad reckless.”

“And his enemy will take advantage of this?”

“Precisely.”

We went off to bed as well, and I waited a moment to see if Holmes would join me for a last night together before his heading to the ancient lodgings for the next few days. I was rewarded for my patience. Holmes tapped lightly upon the heavy wooden door before pushing it open. 

“Thank you for waiting. I was detained by the messaging staff. Lestrade, tenacious as ever, telegraphed to inform us he had opted to leave on this night. I advised him it was too early and would do more harm than good. So. He shall arrive to-morrow, as scheduled.”

Holmes crawled into bed beside me and kissed the top of my forehead. “I am afraid any increasingly amorous activities might be noticed by Sir Henry. He has left his room and is pacing the foyer. Though I do think, should he happen to observe any indication of said activities, it would not discomfit him in the least. Do you agree, Watson?”

“I...suspected as much.”

“I am glad for your inability to make more concrete determinations. It helps to maintain myself as your top priority when it comes to paramours.”

I smacked him gently upon the shoulder.

He responded to the rebuke by kissing me softly and pressing himself up against me. I wanted him to stay, and said as much. He nodded, and blew out our solitary candle.


	4. Chapter 4

When I awoke, he was gone. I knew he had already made his way to the hillside hideaway where he would secrete himself until it was time to save Sir Henry. I sighed. Holmes had made improvements when it came to sharing his intricate plans with me, but I was still in the dark more often than not. I knew what my own role was to be in the matter, but little more. I might not have understood the cave, or why he wished me to write him many letters regarding the breakdown of the day’s activities, but we both knew I would do so without fail. 

Yes, we had come a long way with regards to this, though we still had farther to go. I shuddered to think of those early days, when that tendency to keep all manner of things to himself led me to believe Holmes a master criminal. I should have known by the haemoglobin experiment. What criminal would care about detecting blood? Avoiding spilling too much of it, perhaps, but… Well, I was younger then. And so was Holmes. 

He has since expanded his brain attic to include many things. And I am flattered at the number of those things which relate, directly or indirectly, to me. And others, on which I had once considered him ignorant, I now know to have been always a part of his character. I remember keenly how bitterly disappointed I had been that I had somehow taken up lodgings with an ignorant companion who had claimed he only strove to remember things which would help him in his work. How I had said, with some thinly-veiled pity directed at Holmes, how awful it would be to live in a world where you couldn't talk to anyone about poetry...about art..or politics. A world where everyone only knew what he had to know for business. Bless that man, he retorted with something I would think about in many different ways over the years; “Watson, I will cheer you up. People like me are few in the world. It could even be...that I am the only one.”

Of course he was correct as to his singularity. I thought on this, and how much I would miss him, alone in this strange place cloaked in mystery and the spectre of generations tormented by unknown forces. I know from my years of military service that to be as brave as Sir Henry was, an intelligent man must also know fear. One could not simply ignore such matters. I wished for Sir Henry a true confidante to share the burden with. Perhaps I could serve that purpose to some degree. I would attempt to discuss the matter later tonight. In the meantime, I thought perhaps a walk along the moor might be beneficial. I didn't for a moment think being able to traverse it safely during the daylight hours would have any bearing upon my safety once the sun had set, but increasing my familiarity with the landscape might help. I saw the spot where Holmes was waiting upon the horizon, and turned in the opposite direction.

Shortly into my walk, I became keenly aware of the silence of the countryside. As I continued, however, I became even more aware of the patches of noise. The birds feeding off the wild grasses...a red grouse, its scarlet plumage standing out from amongst the thin reeds, hoping to attract a mate and not a fox. A land of heather and hare. A land unscarred by the persistent need for progress. I began to settle into its embrace and feel a new sense of timelessness and peace. I headed back with a new understanding.

I observed the workings of the household, and wrote much on the behavior of the staff and what I perceived to be the growing agitation of Sir Henry. He was not exactly hostile to Barrymore, but there was a marked increase in frustration which he had attempted to check by asking about the history of the place, what year certain wings had been constructed, as well as any previous attempts made to modernise it. It made me wonder just how modern Canada had become, and whether we were lagging behind somehow. Still, I understood his need to exert a degree of control over his environment. I wrote down my observations and psychological assessment and dutifully left the letter in a remote section of the garden by a sundial. Holmes’s boy would be there soon, and send my message onward. I kept it appropriate to the situation at hand, lest the boy should “accidentally” read some of it. 

I went back inside and decided to while away the hours with some light reading. I wanted to escape into a good collection of serials, but was not feeling especially hopeful at the heavier stuff which graced the collection of the late Sir Charles. After searching a stack of periodicals, I did come across a copy of The Union Jack, and couldn’t help but wonder what Holmes thought of Sexton Blake, Detective. No, nothing to wonder about at all, actually. I finally settled on a copy of The Railway Magazine and imagined myself on a Train Eclair de Luxe, having left Gare de l'Est on my way to Vienna. Noises outside the window pulled me out of my reverie and I turned to see Sir Henry leading a horse away from the edge of the property. I threw down the magazine in haste and headed outside.

Sir Henry easily spotted me sprinting out of the house, my coat still unbuttoned and sliding off my shoulder. He faced me and began to shout, his face reddening, “Are you going to follow me everywhere I go? No, don’t bother. I know the answer! Can’t a gentleman go to court a fine young lady? Miss Stapleton and I had a lovely chat upon the moor and she invited me to dinner, as I have said. Why shouldn’t I enjoy a lovely evening with her? Why shouldn’t I be treated as a man instead of a child, free to pursue romantic interests as befits a man?”

I must admit, the conversation took me aback, I was entirely unprepared for the force of emotion behind his words. 

“I have every intention of making my interest known, and I shall go to her now, without my chaperone! And I will return as far into the evening as I see fit! Farewell, Dr Watson!” And with that, he gave a firm kick to his horse’s side and rode off quickly. So quickly that it took me a moment to notice that he was riding not to the east, where the Stapletons lived, but to the north instead, a path which would take him directly to Dr James Mortimer.


	5. Chapter 5

I headed straight to Holmes’s little hovel. He was not there. I fought to respect his privacy and not rifle through the notes he kept upon a makeshift table, which also contained my opened letters. 

“Watson!” His voice rang out against the stone walls. “I take it our man has run off at last?”

“Yes. He appears to be headed—“

“To James Mortimer?”

I looked down and collected my thoughts. “So it would seem….”

“Ah, my good man, but where else should he go? Did he come clean with you at last, or did he suggest he was off to visit Miss Stapleton?”

“The latter,” said I.

“Oh Watson, it is not really surprising, is it? That he should prefer the company of Dr Mortimer, and that he should say otherwise?”

“I suppose not.” After all, what indication had I given that we were cut from a similar cloth? Foolish of me to have expected him to disclose such a confidence. 

“Do not concern yourself with that, Watson. Sir Henry is on the move. He has taken a horse, so he will be far safer than on foot.”

“Will his adversary still pursue him?”

“I suspect he will be watched. And we will watch as well.” He led me to a rocky outcrop where we could easily see the path below.

“Has Lestrade arrived?”

“Yes. He is in the house, having a light meal in preparation for our long vigil. Sir Henry will return after dinner. Unless you angered him past the point of propriety.” Holmes winked.

I shook my head in exasperation.

In the distance, I saw the figure of Inspector Lestrade, heading toward our perch. 

“We will wait here for his return.”

______________<*>________________

The wait was long, and my shoulder was not at all pleased with the damp, cold air. Holmes noticed immediately, and suggested I retreat to his cave, but I couldn’t see myself leaving our position. I’d be there when Sir Henry returned, when Holmes’s plan came to fruition. 

None of our eyes strayed so much as an inch from the path. Still, Holmes was easily able to discuss the particulars of Lestrade’s country journey without fault. They chatted about a construction project on the outskirts of London which had apparently caused Lestrade’s carriage to nearly capsize. I was so accustomed to such proclamations that I no longer cared how it was that Holmes knew, and Lestrade was still reluctant to ask Holmes how he had arrived at his conclusions—preferring us to believe that he also thought them elementary. Holmes took the lack of interest in this deduction in stride though, and moved the conversation forward, with more talk of the city’s improvements, whether the Twopenny Line had made any significant dent in surface traffic, and at what point officials would begin to clear out the slums of Clare Market for the next project. Holmes seemed concerned about where the struggling families would relocate to next, while Lestrade complained about how difficult the task of clearing out the decrepit homes scheduled for demolition would be.

They were in the midst of a somewhat heated argument on the benefits and detriments of rebuilding the area near Regents Park when we all heard a remarkable noise from a spot just out of our line of vision. We all scrambled forward, trying to close the distance without losing the benefit of higher ground.

There, collapsed not 300 yards in front of us, was the body of Sir Henry. In a grotesque recreation of his family legend, a huge beast stood growling in front of him. I raised my arm, shoulder stiff from the weather, and aimed at its head. Lestrade withdrew his weapon and aimed as well.

“Hold your fire!” cried Holmes, as he laid his hand upon my forearm. I carefully lowered my revolver. Lestrade looked puzzled, but followed suit.

“But…” he said.

“But nothing, man! You think you see Sir Henry on the ground, but that is only Sir Henry’s coat. There is no man within!”

I took up Holmes’s binoculars and looked closely; he was right. There was naught but a heap of clothes. Not just Sir Henry’s ridiculous fur coat, but the shell of a full suit as well. I could think of no reason a sensible man would discard his clothing on a night such as this. 

Holmes inched closer toward the creature and began to make a gesture as if he wished to call out to it, when a blur sped into view from behind a rock cropping. 

There were two of them! Two of the largest hounds I had ever laid eyes on. I was at a loss for words. But one thing was certain...this was the legendary Hound, depicted in the Baskerville curse— it could be no other. Its head was massive, and its dripping jaws were overcrowded with fangs, far more narrow than any dog’s, each coming to so fine a point I wondered how such a creature could eat a meal without harming itself. And there were two of them, snarling at each other in a display of malevolence the likes of which I had never before seen. 

It was my turn to put out my arm to block Holmes’s progress. Lestrade’s jaw dropped. Holmes seemed startled that I would have held him back, but he quickly came to his senses, stared a moment, then I could see him lost in thought once more. 

“Don’t shoot yet. But keep your weapon at the ready,” Holmes commanded. “Do your best to distinguish between the two...if at all possible.”

I found it exceedingly difficult to do so. They had initially circled each other for a brief moment as if sizing each other up, but now they were lunging...leaping forward with bared teeth. The noise in and of itself would have frightened anyone away, a sort of low growl with piercing whines each time one of them would land a blow upon the other. It was not long before I lost track of which was the beast we had come upon and which the newcomer. They were massive, strong...far larger than any dog, larger even than any wolf, though to be truthful I had never seen a wolf in the flesh before and relied only on my periodicals for perspective. But they were, dare I say it, not of this world.

Suddenly one turned to face us, his head cocked to one side, and in that moment seemed to attempt to make sense of our purpose there. That was but a brief second, but still long enough for the other wolf, for that is what I decided to call the creatures for lack of a better term, to strike at his rival’s throat. The curious one had dodged the blow just in time and retaliated through sheer instinct. Its aim was true, and the newcomer, or so I believed it to be as their fur color and size were remarkably similar, fell, blood matting on thick fur and pooling upon the ground. The first wolf backed away slowly, as if gaining some deeper level of insight as to what had occurred, and ran off across the moor.

And then, I saw something remarkable…something I would hesitate to tell another soul, were it not for the confirmation of both Holmes and Lestrade. The downed wolf shook for a moment, and then began a most remarkable transformation. The thick fur began to thin, and the body to shrink right before our very eyes, until it was no longer a wolf we were observing, but something that appeared nearly human. It shook violently once more, and gazing upon the transformed creature, it was now most definitely a man. Stapleton. He was, as before, curled up upon himself and entirely nude. I rushed forward, in spite of Holmes’s shout of warning and failed grasp at the back of my coat. There is no stopping me from offering aid to one in need. Alas, Stapleton was beyond saving. 

I looked toward the vast expanse of the moor, wondering if Sir Henry had been the other wolf, and if he was in need of medical assistance. But he had headed off toward Grimpen Mire, and I hadn’t the slightest notion of how to begin such a search.

“If it is indeed Sir Henry, we cannot assist him in that form,” said Holmes.

“A wound is a wound, Holmes. I do not claim to be an expert on the anatomy of wolves, but any injuries, man or beast, require similar treatment. At least in principle.”

“I do not doubt your skill, my friend. I doubt Sir Henry’s ability to accept it. He ran from us rather than toward us. And if he is coherent enough to permit treatment, he will return to his home.”

“He might be too embarrassed, or shocked.”

“Indeed he might be. We have no way of determining if this is a long-standing affliction or if it is newly acquired. As much as it is against my nature to believe in the concept of a curse, we have the document as reference point. The account of the deaths of his ancestors are consistent with this being...hereditary. Though I must say Sir Henry did not appear to behave in the manner of one who hides a dark family secret. It seems more likely it was unknown to him, and that the effect is tied not only to the phase of the moon—a fact I hear is the habit of such creatures and one which would have affected him upon the Canadian prairie just as readily—but is also somehow tied to the moor itself.” Holmes looked up at the moon as it cast its erie glow across the desolate landscape. “This means a great deal as far as the story of Sir Hugo is concerned. The tale speaks of a creature tossing aside a body like rags. Well it is now clear this is because they were indeed rags. Hugo had transformed into a great Hound and left a detritus of clothing in his wake. If the maiden was capable of such craft, surely she was capable of transforming herself as well. No one from Sir Hugo’s search party would have dared draw near the hound, and they all fled. How then, can we attest to its accuracy? If we had but seen the event, Watson, just imagine what was lying within that pile of clothing which they thought to have been the girl’s body!”

“A small animal! Perhaps a mouse?”

“Perhaps. Small enough to escape everyone’s notice, at any rate.”

I had liked to hope she had managed to escape those unconscionable villains. And with her powers, she was able to curse her captor. It made for a far more rewarding account.

Lestrade seemed less interested in the fate of the poor girl. “So she...transformed him...Sir Hugo...into that...thing?”

“Not just him it seems, but his descendants as well.”

“But...how did Sir Charles die? They did find his body, remember.”

That gave me pause as well. Sir Charles saw tracks in the distance. Did that imply he was being watched by Stapleton? Did he wish Sir Charles harm? How could the Baskerville curse have affected him, if that was, in fact, what we were dealing with? Doubt began to set in. My mind wanted to disclaim all that it had just witnessed. To seek some far more rational explanation. But there lay the body of Mr Jack Stapleton, and the discarded clothing of them both.

“It is possible he saw Stapleton drawing near in his wolf form before he had time to undergo the transformation. But if the conditions were right for Stapleton to have made the shift from man to beast it would have been so for Sir Charles as well. Oh, what I would give for an almanac upon my person! But, let us suppose the moon was indeed full. I do not believe he was attacked. But we now know that a werewolf reverts forms as they lay dying. I think, it is possible the tracks we saw were his own. Sir Charles was a weak man. If you recall, there was much shaking and a great deal of physical stress. I cannot imagine such a transformation would not take its toll. It may have been too much for his heart.”


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes and I assured Lestrade we would no longer require his assistance, and set off to Baskerville Hall. The inspector informed us that he had already secured lodgings for the night at the Two Bridges, as there would be no train till morning. He bid us farewell. No further mention of Sir Henry was made. I thought perhaps Lestrade would be doing his best to forget the whole incident. 

Holmes and I would do no such thing. If we were somehow mistaken in our assessment— an outcome which neither or us could reasonably foresee—then all the better. That would mean Sir Henry had been strolling upon the moor and would return to his home a man free from the burden of any ancestral legacy. But I thought only of what Holmes has said regarding the impossible and the improbable. It was a hard truth, but a truth nonetheless. My stomach sank as I realised I would be giving a full account to Dr Mortimer. 

When we returned to the residence, we were both shocked to find the doctor in the kitchen making tea. Barrymore was present, but Mortimer had the air of determination one sees in a man who has to do a difficult task and wishes no assistance. He set some milk upon the tray, turned to us, and quietly stated, “Miss Stapleton came calling upon horseback when her brother had not returned from a stroll earlier that evening. She said she had heard disquieting noises as she traveled, and had sought me out to help her in her search. I, of course, was concerned, as Sir Henry was…well...I knew he was in danger.”

“We know Sir Henry was with you,” Holmes stated plainly. “You have no need to hide the fact.” Holmes placed his arm around my waist.

Mortimer looked at the display of open affection, a bit shocked, but nodded all the same. “Yes, he was with me. I suggested he... stay the night... but he insisted upon returning home.” 

“Has he,” I began, “returned?” I erased from my query any indication of my curiosity as to in what condition he had returned. 

Mortimer continued to prepare the tray. “I am about to bring him up some tea.” So he was in his bedchamber and, I assumed, in human form. I thought back to the battle we had observed and was grateful one within the medical profession was tending to him. Even without the wounds, such a transformation must take a toll upon the body. “He is rather ill,” he continued.

“You also have no need to hide the particulars of his illness from us,” said Holmes. 

This time Mortimer was not at all surprised. “He is not yet speaking. I believe he is still recovering from the shock. I believe he headed home relying purely on instinct. I saw him, in his other...form, upon the moor. I cannot say how I knew it to be him. I followed him at a safe distance.” He stopped for a moment and faced me. “Oh, I had forgotten to mention. We saw Mr Stapleton’s body—Miss Stapleton and myself. I escorted her safely home and assured myself she had someone to look after her. In fact, she said she would be abandoning the estate entirely and heading back to the North Country. She did not seem at all surprised by the turn of events. Said something about curses falling upon the deserving and undeserving alike. Seeing her brother clearly had been attacked by a large creature, his throat mangled, I assumed she meant that he had been the undeserving victim of Sir Hugo’s creature. Now I think, perhaps I had misunderstood.”

“I noticed it when we were examining the portraits upon our arrival at Baskerville Hall,” said Holmes. “You might care to take a look at the third one upon the stair. While you bring up your tea. It may provide some clarification.”

“It will show me that Mr Stapleton is a relation of Sir Hugo, will it not?”

“The resemblance is there for anyone to make note. It is logical that his sister knew of this as well. As well as knew James Stapleton was working on a plan to establish his claim to the inheritance.”

“So, Sir Henry was the innocent. And her brother the deserving. Well. If there is a way to remove this curse, we shall find it. And if there is none, we shall manage the land from afar and perhaps, in this way, he might yet be spared the curse on the moor. A month shall be enough time to establish a caretaker for the property. Perhaps Barrymore will do us this last service, out of respect for the bond between the families.” Mortimer let out a stifled laugh. “Well. It seems the curse ends with SIr Henry, at least. An end to this tragedy. And, if you’ll excuse me…” Mortimer lifted the tray and began to ascend the staircase.

“There is nothing more we can do here,” said Holmes.

“There remains one thing, Holmes. Doctor Mortimer,” said I, calling toward the stairs.

“Yes?” he replied.

“I am a combat surgeon. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?” I waited, hoping he would consider my words as they were intended, as a sincere offer of assistance, not an opportunity to gawk at something I suspected few had ever seen. There was silence for a moment, and then a confident reply. 

“Yes. Thank you, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes, you are welcome to join us.”

We climbed the stair, pausing only a moment to gaze at the portrait which clarified the events of the evening somewhat, though much would remain unfathomable. Dr Mortimer went in first, and we respectfully waited on the other side of the entryway. Mortimer’s words were spoken clearly enough for us to hear them from our position. From his silence, I had assumed Sir Henry was not yet capable of speech, though it was all too easy to have anticipated the missing words... for Dr Mortimer, as well as Holmes and myself.

“I have brought you some tea as well as cereal,” Mortimer said. “Yes, I know, but you need to keep your strength up. This is my professional advice, mind you. Now...you are my patient, and I am glad of that, but Dr Watson has greater experience with wounds such as yours, my love, and I pray you let him examine them as well. No, no, do rest easy. The time for concealment has ended, on all counts.” I heard his voice increase in volume, and suspected he was heading toward the doorway. “Do come in, gentlemen!”

Dr Mortimer ushered us in and I took a seat beside the bed. Mortimer was feeding Sir Henry small spoonfuls of porridge, his other hand resting upon his knee. He had a few gashes upon the side of his face, but they did not seem severe enough to warrant special treatment. His shoulder bore a significant wound, however. Mortimer looked at it and then at me. “I have cleaned it, but I’m afraid it will need stitching. I have some supplies, but only a small amount of ether.”

“I can finish the job and make do with what we have, if you can provide some means of comfort and distraction. He is still in shock and I have hopes he will not register the pain.”

Mortimer nodded. “Soon, Henry… soon we will board a ship and sail around the world, crossing three oceans and sixteen seas. But we won't get on just any dirty ship. We will choose a remarkable, five mast one, and we shall set sail and we shall find a cure, and you shall come back to this land healthy.”

I thought I saw the smallest hint of movement of his head, possibly a nod, though perhaps this was wishful thinking on my part. Mortimer looked at Holmes and I and nodded. “Yes, yes. The best medicine for an Englishman.” He smiled, took his hand, and kissed it gently.

This time, I was certain I saw Sir Henry smile as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that my authorship is revealed: much thanks to by extremely helpful beta, Vulgarweed, and the support of the folks in Antidiogenes.


End file.
